


On the first day of Christmas (I got a Marquess)

by Vamillepudding



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Happy Ending, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: Arthur can't afford to go home for Christmas - this is fine. He's overworked, underpaid, and lonely - this is also fine. He spills coffee on a shitty jumper which costs 1200 bucks - this is no longer fine.Eames wants 1. a coffee, 2. a date for the family's Christmas ball, and 3. not to keep discussing his bloody jumper.But it is, as they say, The Most Wonderful Time of the Year™ - so while it is not quite love at first sight, they are definitely getting there.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 271





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is fully written and will be updated every two days ! Thanks so much to [Cynassa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynassa) whose immortal words 'wait let me finish before you start objecting' pretty much sums up our plotting conversations !!

Ten Days to Christmas (Tuesday)

"No _fucking_ way,“ Arthur says into his phone. He may have said it a bit louder than necessary; several other patrons in the coffeeshop give him indignant looks. Part of him wants to tell them that any and all shouting that may or may not take place here will still be preferable to the Christmas music that’s playing. The more socially attuned part of him, however, forces him to lower his voice as he repeats, “No fucking way, Dom. No.” 

“Why not?” Dom says from the other end of the line. He sounds genuinely confused, but it’s the innocent confusion of the lucky bastards who don’t have a million deadlines to meet. Arthur can’t afford to be confused, he’s too stressed at literally any given point in time. 

“Because,” he says, and moves up a single spot in the long, long line, “first of all, I’m gay, second of all, I’m not that pathetic, and last, but not least, I have better things to do with my time than playing date to your cousin on _Christmas_.” 

“You do?” asks Dom sceptically. “Like what?” 

“Like-“ Arthur starts, and then realises he has no follow-up. The truth is, he doesn’t have better things to do. He doesn’t even have a better thing to do, singular. He does have work, lots of it, but he _could_ put it off for the holidays if he wanted to. Presumably Dom knows that; it’s not like they didn’t work for the same company until last year. 

“Exactly!” Dom exclaims. “Come on. It’ll be a great Christmas party, and Amanda is a lovely girl. You’ll like her.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Arthur says, “I’ll say this to you again, because I think maybe you didn’t hear me the first five times: I’m super gay.”

Clearly affronted, Dom says, “Well, it’s not like I asked you to _sleep_ with her. She’s my baby cousin. In fact, if you even think about laying a finger on her, I-“ 

“Still gay,” Arthur mutters. The line moves again. How is this taking so long, he wonders, why are there so many people here, anyway, do they put meth in their coffee or something- 

“-besides,” Dom is saying, and Arthur tunes back, “you know we miss you.” 

_You shouldn’t have moved to fucking California then_ , Arthur thinks bitterly. At least he’s man enough not to say this out loud. It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s being unfair. He knows. It’s just – just, this last year in Chicago without his two best friends has been really hard. 

No point trying to evade it any longer. Swallowing hard, he says, “Dom, I can’t afford to come visit you. Okay? I miss you guys too. But I can’t afford a plane ticket.” And because he can already hear Dom inhaling, he adds, “And if you offer to pay, I’m never speaking to you again.” 

This, at last, seems to stun Dom into silence. Eventually, he says, “I just want to help.” 

“I know you do,” Arthur says. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you in the new year, maybe.” 

“You will,” says Dom, and this is when they hang up, because this is already several levels more emotional than their conversations usually get. 

Arthur puts his phone back into his pocket and takes another step forward. There are still ten people in front of him. _Jingle Bells_ ends, and starts again, stuck on a loop.

***

Nine Days to Christmas (Wednesday)

The stairs leading up to his apartment are glazed over with ice. Arthur looks at them, looks down at his shoes, looks back at the stairs and the missing railing, curses the fact that he lives in a building with only the fire escape as a possible entryway, and decides that he might as well get a coffee before he faces this new challenge. 

Santa’s Workshop moved in down the road six months ago, with cheesy Christmas music playing literally all the time, even in the stifling heat of summer, and with an honest-to-god pine tree. Their motto is Christmas, 363 days a year. On his first visit there, Arthur made the mistake of asking the barista what happens on the other two days. Ariadne had scoffed prettily and said, like it should have been obvious,

“The other two days are on Christmas. We’re just a normal coffeeshop then. We even redecorate and everything.” When faced with the follow-up question of how the hell this makes any sense, Ariadne had informed him that it was ironic. Arthur, two years out of college and therefore two years out of fake glasses and beanies, had at this point simply taken his coffee and decided to move on with his life. 

(And move on he did, until 24 hours later, on his way to work, a lack of caffeine-induced headache started to set in and Santa’s Workshop was just conveniently right there.) 

Today the café is packed, like it’s been every single day for the past two weeks. Arthur has already resigned himself to a long wait when he spots Ariadne working the register. Not above using his connections to cut the line, he smoothly moves through the crowd of sweaty hipsters clad in ugly jumpers, straight up to the counter. 

Ariadne types in the next order and frowns at him. She’s wearing antlers, Arthur notices. 

“This is the last time,” she says. “People will accuse me of favouritism. Here you go.” She holds out a cup to him. Someone says, “Hey, isn’t that mine?” and Arthur is about to defend himself, maybe pretend to also be named Trevor, when the name and voice fully register. _Oh no_. 

He turns, and finds himself facing his ex-boyfriend. 

Recognising on some level that there is no way to salvage this, but also unable to jump off this train now, he says, “No, this is mine.” 

“That’s my name on it though,” Trevor points out. He sounds amused. 

Arthur clutches the cup tighter and says, “No, it’s not,” and a second later wishes the ground would open up to swallow him. 

“Pretty sure this has Trevor written on it,” Trevor says. He’s smiling, and this all feels so incredibly like it always used to, before everything, that Arthur finds himself smiling back on autopilot. He’s about to say something, maybe give Trevor his cup back, maybe invite him for another cup – everything seems possible right now, with yet another song about love in the snow and under mistletoes playing in the background. 

Except then this girl, who’s standing beside Trevor and whom Arthur only just notices, says, “Why is this taking so long, baby? Just get your stupid coffee back so we can go,” and Arthur can feel his stomach plummeting. 

Smiling sheepishly, Trevor gives the girl a quick kiss to the cheek, and then says, “I’m sorry, we’re in a bit of a hurry. It was nice to see you again, though, Arthur.” And then he takes the cup from Arthur’s unwilling fingers, and leaves the coffeeshop, the girl in tow. 

“I have no idea what was going on there,” Ariadne comments, unsympathetically, while she hands another customer his change, “but while you were having your weird little moment, Clary made you another one.” 

Arthur takes his new drink as if in trance. If the apocalypse were to happen tomorrow, it would still take too long. He thanks Ariadne automatically, blindly throws some money on the counter, and makes his way to the door, ready to brave the snowstorm and the frozen staircase and go home and spend the rest of the evening on Facebook stalking Trevor and all his other exes to wallow in self-pity, something he hasn’t done in ages – he’s ready to do all of that, except, right as he’s leaving Santa’s Workshop, another customer enters, in time for Arthur to spot him, but not in time for him to stop himself. 

They collide. 

The man curses, a string of Briticisms that Arthur would make fun of any other day, and it’s only when Arthur has gotten up from the floor that he realises his cup is no longer in his hand. Instead, a suspiciously wet brown stain is now present in the middle of the guy’s sweater.   
“I am so sorry,” he says, mortified. 

“Not to worry,” says the man and grimaces in a way that probably means Arthur _should_ be worried. “’s not a big deal.” 

“No, it is,” Arthur insists stubbornly. “Let me get you a, a napkin or something.” 

The man’s gaze wanders from his stained sweater back to Arthur, incredulous. “Mate, I think we’re past napkins at this point. It’s fine, you’ve done your apology, let’s let it go, shall we? I can stand one ruined jumper, I think.” 

His face burning, Arthur thinks back to Trevor, thinks how this is just the worst fucking day, and sure, maybe his ex has a hot new girlfriend, and maybe he’ll spend Christmas holed up in his apartment on his own, but this, this is something he can fix. This is a problem he can do something about. He _needs_ to fix this. 

“I’ll wash it for you,” he offers. The man actually laughs. 

“Don’t bother. I said it’s fine, alright?” 

He moves past Arthur to join the queue and Arthur knows he’s been dismissed. Boney M starts singing about Mary’s boy child Jesus Christ (was born on Christmas day). Arthur stares at the broad back of the guy he practically assaulted with hot coffee, takes in the truly ghastly yellow fabric of the sweater, who even _wears_ yellow these days, and then before he can think it through, he’s tapping the guy on the shoulder and saying, “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

The man looks uncertain. “A new…coffee?” 

“No,” says Arthur confidently, “a new sweater.” He may not have enough money for a plane ticket, but he can fucking buy this guy a new despicable jumper from the thrift store. 

The last thing he expects is the man to laugh again. This time, it’s a sound of pity. “No offence, but you look like you can’t even afford that cup of coffee you poured all over me, let alone a new jumper.” 

Arthur flinches, the words landing as effectively as an actual blow. Sick humiliation spreads through him sets his veins on fire. It shouldn’t be this easy for strangers to read him, and yet, this guy managed without a thought. 

Still though. What an asshole. Squaring his shoulders, head held high, he snaps, “Yeah, well, you look like you stole these clothes from a circus clown, but I’m not judging.” 

“Look, mate, I think we can safely say that this circus clown’s wardrobe cost more than you’re worth. Leave it.” 

Still angry, angrier than he’s been in months, Arthur snaps, “Just tell me what this cost, and I’ll reimburse you, asshole.” 

“Go on, then,” the man says, a weird smile that is nothing at all like Trevor’s smile earlier playing on his lips. “That’ll be 1200 dollars, neat and square. I take checks.” 

Arthur stares. “What,” he says, “the fuck.”

***

Still Nine Days To Christmas

The worst thing about Dom moving away is that he took Mal with him, charmed her away to move back to his home town. Arthur doesn’t play his favourites among his friends, couldn’t even if he wanted to, but there’s something he can do with Mal that he can’t do with Dom, and that is whinging. Mal and him used to have a standing dinner date, always in that small bar they discovered one night, always on Wednesday evenings. They’d meet up, no matter what else was going on at the time, they’d share a bottle of red wine, and they’d bitch. 

Nothing was off limits on those nights, and their complaints would range from big, actual problems (“[insert boyfriend name] broke up with me, and no one will ever love me”) over medium-level issues (“Dom wants us to go to Hawaii for the holidays, but I promised my parents we would come visit”) up to the small pettiness of everyday life (“that fucking asshole from accounting took my parking spot today”). 

Right now, Arthur wishes nothing more than to call his best friend, have some wine, and talk about the shitshow that his life has become.  
Because his best friend is in California with his other best friend, hundreds of miles out of reach, he asks Ariadne to meet up with him instead. 

“And _then_ ,” Arthur admits a few hours later, “I had to admit that I don’t have that kind of money, and even if I did, I wouldn’t spend it on a _sweater_ , although I didn’t say that part. I just said I can’t pay him. So we ended up exchanging contact info, and I promised to pay it off in instalments. I’m assuming that if I don’t pay up soon, he’s going to send a private bodyguard to take me out.” He’s only half-joking; probably he shouldn’t have given Eames his address. Then again, it’s not like Eames can do much with that info, and it’s not like Arthur doesn’t have Eames’ address in return – except that, unlike Eames, he doesn’t have the funds for a bodyguard. Or an assassin. 

Ariadne drains her cheap beer and spreads out lazily on the entire length of Arthur’s sofa. The movement makes her shirt hitch up and reveals her pierced bellybutton. “Okay, but you realise that if you’d accepted that he thinks it’s no big deal, you wouldn’t be in this mess, right? _Do_ you realise that?” 

“If I’d known how insanely expansive this would be, I wouldn’t have offered,” Arthur says, even though he probably would have.  
Ariadne nods like she knows he’s lying. “Alright then. So what’s this mystery rich guy’s name?” 

“Eames.” 

“ _Eames_?” 

“Do you know him?” Arthur asks in surprise. He’s in Santa’s Workshop a couple of times a week at least, and if he’d ever seen Eames around before, he’d know. His pretty good face memory aside, he has to admit that in between all the coffee stains and ridiculous wardrobe choices (both price and type), Eames is rather handsome. Now if only the man could maybe not open his mouth, like, ever again, that thought might even lead somewhere. As it is, he simply noted down his phone and bank account number, thinking that if he doesn’t see Eames again until the day he dies, it will still be too soon. 

“ _Know_ him? He’s come in every day for the last month or so. Always leaves the biggest tips. Not surprised you don’t get along with him, though. You guys are like, polar opposites.” 

“To be clear,” Arthur says and finishes his own beer in one go, “The reason I don’t get along with him is because he’s an asshole who pays over a thousand dollars for a piece of clothing, and who-“ He stops himself before he can finish that sentence. There’s a reason he only told Ariadne half of what Eames said to him. 

Ariadne seems unconvinced, but lets it go in favour of getting them more beer from the kitchen. It’s as good an end to the conversation as any.


	2. Chapter 2

Eight Days to Christmas (Thursday)

Some workdays are better than others, but almost all of them get vastly improved by coffee. His own coffeemaker a machine straight from hell, Arthur is left to get his daily dose of caffeine in various cafés instead. Today he’s already had several cups but still feels so tired at the end of the day that he figures as a general reward, he might as well go get a coffee that doesn’t taste like actual garbage. 

Santa’s Workshop is packed as always, with absolutely no chance of securing a table once he’s successfully gotten his drink. _Should’ve had that coffee to go_ , Arthur thinks regretfully, and is debating his options (stay at the counter, sit on the floor, or take the ceramic mug into the snowstorm outside), when he spots Eames. 

Eames sits at a secluded corner table and waves cheerfully, the movement in time to _Last Christmas_ blasting out of the speakers at top volume. Arthur frowns and resists the urge to check behind him in case Eames is waving at someone else – that happened to him one time in middle school and he still wakes up some nights thinking about it. He has no desire for a repeat performance. Snowstorm it is, then.

After all, you don’t spend the better part of your adult years in Chicago without being able to take a bit of cold. 

He’s just managed to get out the door without spilling his coffee on anyone, again, and is now standing right outside the café when Eames appears on his side, his own drink in hand. 

“Avoiding me, are you?” 

“Yes,” Arthur says, without any heat. It’s like all of yesterday’s anger has dissipated overnight. He’s no longer truly angry, he’s just tired. Is this what that famous holiday spirit is like, or just the effect of all the wine he had with Ariadne? “It’s been one day, and I haven’t had time to go to the bank yet, but I’ll get to it as soon as possible, okay?” 

Eames flinches. “About that. I meant to call you about this, actually, but now you’re here, so I’ll just say, I was a bit of an arse yesterday.” 

“You think?” Arthur says, blowing on the coffee before taking a careful sip. Next to him, Eames is doing the same. 

“About what I said – I didn’t really mean any of it. Bit silly of me, really.” 

“Forget it,” Arthur tells him. He doesn’t feel like talking about any of this, especially not with Eames. “It doesn’t matter.”

It occurs to him all of a sudden that this is an odd bit of role reversal, a disjointed mirror of what happened almost 24 hours ago at this very place. This time, it’s him the one doing the dismissing, and Eames is the one who now insists, “It matters. You caught me in a bad mood, but that’s no excuse for – it’s just no excuse. I would like to extend a formal apology.” 

_A formal apology, Jesus, who talks like that_ , thinks Arthur, and says out loud, “I should be going.” 

“You haven’t finished your drink,” Eames points out. Knowing it’s childish but unable to stop himself, Arthur makes eye contact and then drains the whole cup in one go. 

“Was the burned mouth worth it?” Eames asks sarcastically. 

“Yup,” Arthur says, hands Eames the empty dish, and leaves.

This time it takes Eames a couple of minutes to catch up to him, and he’s slightly out of breath when he does. “Had to return the cups,” he says, falling into step beside him. “Listen, I’ve been thinking – stop walking so fast, will you?” Arthur slows down ever so slightly. “I’ve been thinking,” Eames repeats. “That jumper and I have what some might call a history, you know?” 

“Oh God,” Arthur says, “is this going to be a story that ends in you getting that sweater as a personal gift from the President or something? Will I be arrested for treason?” 

“That certainly came out of nowhere,” says Eames, “but no, sorry to disappoint. That jumper _was_ a gift, as a matter of fact, but it came from my dear aunt who, thankfully, has not been named president just yet. It was her birthday yesterday, so I wore it to soothe the disappointment that I’m gayer than Elton John. Thanks to you, however, I was able to not just skip the jumper, but also the entire party, pretending I had third-degree-burns after some peasant in the coffeeshop assaulted me.” 

Arthur stares at him long enough that Eames fidgets and adds, “The peasant thing was a joke. Why have we stopped? Not going to murder me in a filthy alleyway and steal my kidney, are you? Because then my aunt would surely-“ 

“This _filthy alleyway_ is where I live,” Arthur says. He takes a second to enjoy the uncertain look Eames is giving him before pointing upwards at the building. “Top floor.” 

“Ah,” Eames says, relieved. 

“Right,” Arthur says a bit awkwardly. He points upwards again, blinking rapidly against the instant assault of snowflakes in his eyes, and says, “So, I should be-“ 

“Just one minute,” Eames interrupts. He actually moves towards the front door to physically block it. Little does he know that that door hasn’t worked in months, and Arthur and his neighbours all use the fire escape now. “I’ve been thinking, and really, there’s no point in you paying me, is there? I don’t need the money, and I have more than enough jumpers to tide me over the winter. But if you do insist on paying me back somehow – how about you owe me a favour?” 

As someone who watched several soap operas with Dom and just as many detective movies with Mal over the years, he’s instantly alarmed.

“Oh my God,” he says, “is it gonna be illegal? Do you need my help burying a body? Because I think if that’s the case, I’d really rather pay-“ 

“Nono,” Eames says hastily. “Just a general favour, alright? I promise it shan’t be anything unseemly.” 

“No bodies?” 

“Probably not,” says Eames and, when Arthur doesn’t reply, says, “That was another joke. No bodies, you have my word.” 

Just about everything that’s just happened seems more than a little off, but then again – it’s not like Arthur _wants_ to pay a large sum of money. Also, the snow is still falling, and he’s really cold. “Fine,” he says. “One favour.” 

All things considered, he thinks, Eames really has no business looking so happy about the prospect of not getting money, but then again – Eames is probably the kind of person who’s never been told No. Who is Arthur to try and start? Besides, Eames’ face looks kind of nice when he’s not sneering. Arthur wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.

***

Seven Days to Christmas (Friday)

For the first time since college, Arthur is home early on a Friday. His boss practically shoved him out of the office. “It’s Christmas, Arthur,” she’d said, ignoring his protests that it’ll be another week still. “You work too hard.” 

Serves him right that he can’t even do this right, can’t even divide his workload to his boss’ satisfaction. What employee has ever, in the history of mankind, been accused of working _too hard_? 

A year ago, he’d have used the free time to call his granddad, or to go over to Dom and Mal’s shared apartment. This year, it’s just a few additional hours of a weekend that will already feel too long, as most weekends do these days. So instead he goes home and digs out his old copy of The Trial. 

Half an hour later, he’s on page 2 and ready to drown himself in the sink, his phone ringing is a thankful distraction. He replaces his book on the shelf, never to be touched again, and only too gladly answers the call. 

“This is Arthur speaking, who’s this?” 

“About that favour,” comes a familiar British voice over the receiver. 

“Oh my god,” Arthur says. _This_ is why he wanted to stay in the office. This is why. “It’s been one day, how did you even have time to murder someone in cold blood?”

“Speaking in a broader sense, this is about murder. Speaking in a narrower sense, this is about my family Christmas party. Which is tomorrow.” 

A beat. Arthur says, “…okay?” 

“The thing is,” Eames says, “they sent out these invitations months ago, and I rather optimistically put myself down for bringing a plus-one.” 

“Okay?” 

“So now I find myself in need of a date, or else the body in need of burying will be me,” Eames concludes. “And here I was sitting, remembering a certain bloke who owes me a favour.” 

Arthur waits for the punchline. Nothing comes. He says, flatly, “You want me to be your escort.” 

Eames says, “Of course not,” and Arthur would almost relax, except Eames follows it up with, “Escorts get paid.” 

“That’s even worse. You want me to be your, what, your personal slave?” 

“Of course not,” Eames repeats, managing to sound aghast at the very idea. “I want you to be my date. Surely that’s a concept you’re familiar with.” When Answer doesn’t reply ( _can’t_ reply, he’s at a loss for words), Eames hesitatingly says, “Or maybe you aren’t. Maybe-“ 

“ _Maybe_ ,” Arthur interrupts angrily, “us lower classes are too poor to find someone to take us out? Fuck you.” 

“That is not what I said,” snaps Eames. “Also, and do forgive me if I’m getting this wrong, but the way I see it, you owe me. So unless you have better plans, I am now formally inviting you to be my date.” 

In the wake of that, knowing that he really did promise Eames, Arthur says the only thing he can think of. 

“I don’t own a suit.” 

“I’ll send you one,” Eames says confidently – and that seems to be that. Arthur will get a suit, easy as that, and they’ll go spend a couple hours together at Eames’ family thing, and then both of them can move on with their lives. They’ll become each other’s anecdotes, maybe, to be occasionally dusted off and told at parties, earning a chuckle and nothing more. Good. Arthur is glad about this. Arthur cannot _wait_ to be done. 

Except Done means going back to weekends spent with nothing but depressing books and a staggering sense of loneliness.   
Arthur blurts out, “I think we should meet up. Before the ball. To get our stories straight.” 

“Stories?” 

“Like, what are we telling people about us?”

“Arthur,” Eames says slowly, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Arthur makes a vague hand gesture before he realises Eames can’t see him . “Us,” he repeats. “I’m here as your fake boyfriend, right? We need a cover story.” It sounds ridiculous said out loud, but he’s got a good feeling about this idea anyway. It only makes sense. If they do this, they might as well do this properly, and Arthur, after all, did not graduate _magna cum laude_ because he does things half-assed. 

“Fan of James Bond, are you?” Eames jokes, but his heart doesn’t seem to be in it; he sounds less mocking and more thoughtful. Eventually he says, “You know, I rather think you’re right. Let’s meet. Are you hungry? I know this great restaurant, let’s go there.”

“What, right now?” 

“Only 24 hours before the ball, yeah? Time waits for no man, Arthur,” Eames says. “Stay put, I’ll come get you. Oh, I forgot – you aren’t afraid of flying, are you?” 

Arthur rolls his eyes, regrets the fact that Eames isn’t here to witness it, and says, “Was that meant to be funny?” before hanging up.

***

Still Seven Days to Christmas

It wasn’t meant to be funny. 

It turns out Eames owns a small plane. 

Of course, as Eames patiently tells him when he’s having a minor freak-out over this at the airport, it’s not really _his_ plane. Rather, it’s the plane of an old family friend, who’s known Eames for years and happily lends him his plane whenever available so Eames can fly private – after all, who doesn’t hate being stuck on the middle seat in between a mother with screaming toddler and a bloke who pays a bit too much attention to the flight attendants? 

Arthur says he wouldn’t know, seeing as he’s never flown before. 

Eames laughs. 

Arthur doesn’t. 

Eames stops laughing, and, appearing to think this through a little, settles on, “You’ll be fine.” 

Arthur lets this slide, aware that it was him who suggested this meeting. At the time, he’d been thinking they could grab a burger or something at the diner down the street, but he hadn’t specified, so in a way, this is his fault. Clearly he should have said _, I think we should meet up, let’s do it without contributing to the ice caps melting more than necessary_. He makes a mental note to remember this for next time, then immediately crosses it out; it’s not like there’s going to _be_ a next time. 

The actual flight time isn’t that long, probably shorter than the time it took them to get to the airport, and Arthur doesn’t vomit or pass out even once, so he counts this one as a victory. He’s taken the window seat upon Eames’ suggestion, and he spends most of the ride looking at the world thousands of miles below, fields and streets and houses never appearing for more than a couple of seconds at a time.

He’s so immersed in the sight that he barely takes notice of Eames, who appears content to sit in silence while he reads his book. When Arthur, finally tired of the clouds that have replaced the scenery, glances at it, it takes him a second to realise what’s different about it. 

“That’s a weird font,” he says, and watches in fascination as Eames colours slightly. 

“It’s for dyslexics,” he explains. “Bigger words, more space between the lines, that sort of thing. It’s a bit silly, but-“ 

“No,” Arthur says, “I get it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He doesn’t really know why he added that last bit, except – except that when asked about the font, Eames looked, just for a second, as embarrassed as Arthur has felt all his life whenever the subject of money came up. It’s still a sore point, but it’s taken him years to realise that being poor isn’t a character flaw. Being dyslexic isn’t, either. 

Unaware of Arthur’s internal debate, Eames smiles faintly. He’d shut the book, but now he opens it again and resumes reading. Arthur looks back out the window, hiding his own smile.

***

Still Seven Days to Christmas

Arthur has been to New York City a few times before, but never in Winter. Just like Chicago, New York is hidden away under thick layers of snow but, Arthur thinks, New York wears it better. 

He voices this thought to Eames, who steers the car (Arthur has been too afraid to ask if it’s a rental, borrowed from another helpful family friend, or if Eames really owns a car in every major city in America) onto another lane and laughs. “The spell wears off once you’ve lived here a couple of months. Nothing better to break the illusion than a mugging or two.” 

“You’ve lived here?” Arthur asks, not sure _why_ he’s surprised, just knowing that he is. British accent or not, Eames just doesn’t seem like a typical New Yorker. Eames, he muses, doesn’t seem like a typical anything. 

“I did my undergrad at Columbia. Dad’s American, so he insisted,” Eames says, driving over a red light with the confidence of a man who is well-used to getting speeding tickets. “He was so dead-set on the idea that he almost didn’t let me come home for Christmas the first year. Said something about how I should get to know the American traditions.” 

Arthur laughs to cover the fact that in his world, attending an Ivy League college isn’t something a parent needs to _insist_ on. Then Eames says, “We’re here,” and Arthur forgets all about university, because the restaurant they’ve stopped at is - 

A 24-hour-diner with a flashing neon sign that marks it as Sally’s Diner. It’s in between a bubble tea store and a pet grooming shop. One of the bins in front of the place has been tipped over; a racoon is eating its way through the garbage as they pass. 

“You alright there?” Eames asks once they’re seated and have a large plastic menu each. “Only you look a bit peaky.” 

Arthur looks around to make sure the waitress is out of earshot, and whispers, “I was expecting like, the Ritz, not something where you get two burgers for the price of one if you order curly fries on a Friday.” 

“Really?” Eames exclaims, closely inspecting his own menu. “That sounds like an excellent deal. Let’s order that and a deep fried milkshake, I promise you won’t regret it.” He waves over the waitress, rattles off the order Arthur didn’t agree on, and only then takes in Arthur’s expression. “Did you _want_ to go to the Ritz?” he asks doubtfully. “Only I discovered this place some years ago, and they make the best burgers in all of New York, and the Ritz is vastly overrated, but if you want we can-“ 

“No, this is fine,” Arthur says quickly, “I guess I just thought we could’ve gone to a diner back in Chicago.” 

“Ah,” Eames says, holding up a single finger, “but does Chicago have a diner that makes ice cream sundaes shaped like a pyramid? Because this one does. The ice cream is gingerbread-flavoured, too. Try to find _that_ in Mud City.” 

“We don’t have the pyramid thing, but I know this great place that has ice cream tasting like Cheetos,” Arthur says. Eames deflates a little, so he hastily adds, “But I’m sure this place is just as good.” 

“It’s better,” Eames promises, good mood instantly restored, and then their milkshakes arrive.

***

Still Seven Days To Christmas

They go to Central Park once they’ve eaten as much as they possibly can (Eames was right about everything, and damnit, now Arthur is going to have to move to New York). It’s already quite late, but at some point during dinner, Eames mentioned that he’s never been ice skating before. 

(“Never?” Arthur had asked, aghast. “Not even once?” 

“It is indeed a ghastly failing on my parents’ part,” Eames had solemnly agreed. “I’ll bring it up to them at the earliest opportunity.

“No,” Arthur said, “We’re doing this today. I’m not accepting this.”) 

All the popular ice skating rinks are already closed by the time they arrive, but Arthur expected this, so he first finds a shop that lets them borrow skates for a couple hours, then directs Eames to park near what Google Maps tells him is Conservatory Water, a pond that that allows ice skating if the ice is thick enough – which, in what news anchors and old cranky men on the subway have been calling the coldest winter in twenty years, is no problem whatsoever. 

“I’m not really comfortable with this,” Eames says, finally on the ice about half an hour later. Judging from the way he’s swaying, he probably won’t be standing upright much longer. Arthur, in vague memories of how he himself was taught, holds out his hands and says,

“Hold on to me.” Eames does, gripping his hands so tight it’s painful. It’s a good thing it’s so late: They’re the only ones here. On the other hand, if Eames is going to fall and crush Arthur with his bulk of muscles, there’s no one left to call the ambulance. 

“We’ll do it together,” he says. “You just move your legs, like _this_ , and then, you know, that’s pretty much it.” They manage a wobbly round around the frozen pond, Eames holding his hand in a death-grip the entire time. The second round goes a bit smoother, and by the time they’re circling the pond a third time, they’re really just holding hands because Arthur wants to make sure Eames won’t hurt himself. 

It starts snowing just as Arthur has convinced Eames to try doing it on his own. Eames promptly falls down, gets back up, falls again. While he helps him get back on his feet, Arthur thinks how this whole exercise is doing wonders for his self-esteem. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

Eames waves him off, but says, “Let’s maybe call it a day, hm?” 

They change shoes and are even able to find a cart selling roasted chestnuts even at a quarter to midnight. Eames moves to pay, only to realise that the salesman accepts cash only, so Arthur gets out his wallet instead. They don’t talk on the way back to the car, simply passing the greasy paper bag with the chestnuts back and forth, and their amiable silence continues all the way up to the airport and the boarding of the plane, at which point Arthur falls asleep immediately. 

A hand jostles him out of deep sleep an undeterminable amount of time later. He curses the hand-owner without so much as opening his eyes and, after a couple more shoves, they must give up, because Arthur is able to go back to sleep rather peacefully. There is some sort of rocking motion, a hushed conversation, and that’s about all he manages before the darkness overtakes him. 

He wakes in his own bed, in yesterday’s clothes, with a note on his bedside table. It reads,

_I’ll see you tonight. I’ll have my driver pick you up at 8. Thanks for the ice skating lesson.  
_

_\- E._

Never has Arthur been more awake. He rereads the note to make sure he got it all, and finally says, “Your _what_?”


	3. Chapter 3

Six Days to Christmas (Saturday)

He hasn’t told Dom about his plans tonight when they were having their weekly Saturday morning-skype session, nor has he mentioned anything about Eames at all. Arthur suspects that letting his best friend in on this whole mess will only serve for a gross misrepresentation of the situation and, in turn, lead to unfair accusations of hypocrisy on Dom’s part. He’s not entirely confident in his own ability to explain the fact that after declining several requests to attend Dom and Mal’s Christmas party and play date to Dom’s cousin, he is spending tonight attending the Christmas party of a complete stranger, and playing date to said guy, who is also, for all intents and purposes, the worst kind of asshole. 

It’s been a while since he saw Dom’s disappointed look in person, but even over the grimy skype window of Arthur’s laptop Dom always manages to make a formidable effort, and Arthur avoids it whenever possible. 

Eames has proven to be both true to his word and also (as previously suspected) clinically insane, because he did send him a suit. It’s dark green. Arthur forces himself to only notice the colour, and not think about anything else, like the way the stiff fabric probably comes from a special kind of wool that’s sheared off the sheep on full moons only. He tried it on long enough to make sure it fits (it does) and then promptly put it on a hanger and left it alone for the rest of the day, terrified to ruin it by, who knows, maybe getting coffee all over it. He’s in enough debt as it is. 

8 pm is fast approaching now, and Arthur has already washed all the dishes, written a report for work, and forwarded a meme about a Christmas tree and a panther to Dom that he knows will go unappreciated. It’s time. 

The suit fits just as it did this morning, which is to say, like a glove. Just as he’s about to leave the flat go wait for the car on the street (no need to make whatever poor soul is stuck working for Eames wait longer than necessary), he remembers something, and returns to his bedroom. It doesn’t take more than a minute or so to fasten the cufflinks his grandfather gave him for his high school graduation. This is the first time he’s wearing them since the funeral, but Arthur refuses to dwell on that fact. He goes downstairs, just in time for a sleek black car to arrive. Arthur hesitates, unsure if it’s reasonable or just very egocentric to assume that the car is here for him, when the window rolls down and a female voice calls out, “You have 20 seconds to make up your mind before I’m off.” 

Once he’s slid into the back and they’ve started driving, Arthur fiddles with his tie (his own; since a tie wasn’t included in the package that was dropped off) and says, “You better not be kidnapping me.” 

The driver laughs. She’s older than Arthur would have expected, at least in her late sixties. She keeps her eyes firmly on the road when she responds, “I have strict orders to drop you off at your apartment tonight whenever you’re ready to leave, don’t worry.” 

Arthur is caught off-guard. “Oh,” he says, lamely, and decides that he might as well just stop right now before he starts embarrassing himself. He’d have expected Eames to either hold his way of return hostage until Eames is ready to leave, or to not care at all – he’s taken some money for a cab in any case. He didn’t expect _this_. 

It only takes a couple minutes of silence before he abandons his plan to keep his mouth shut. Leaning forward a bit so he can better see the driver, he says, “So how do you know Eames?” He’s aiming for casual but it comes out tense. 

The driver frowns. “I work for him.” 

“Oh,” Arthur says again, feeling himself blush. He’s not usually this inarticulate, but this entire situation – the expensive suit, the expensive car, the _driver_ – has him on edge. 

They continue driving in silence for about half an hour and eventually pull up in front of a house that is, perhaps, the first building Arthur has ever seen in real life that qualifies for the title _mansion_. 

“Any chance we can go back right now?” he jokes, though it falls flat under the obvious panic in his voice. The driver turns around in her seat; it’s the first time she’s fully looking at him. 

“If you wish,” she says seriously. 

Arthur is _so_ tempted. But – no. Stupid debts or not, he did promise Eames. 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says and gets out before he can change his mind. 

He’s not the only one who just arrived; a few couples who seemingly came as one group are also going up the ridiculous staircase (is that _marble_?) that leads to the front doors. Arthur joins them as their tail end, hoping to go undetected until they’re inside. Neither Eames nor his driver gave any instructions on anything beyond the arrival. Is he supposed to wait outside for Eames? Is Eames even going to be here already? Arthur assumes he wouldn’t just _ditch_ him, but then again – even after they essentially spent the whole day together yesterday, it’s not like he really _knows_ Eames. And experience has proven that what is obvious to him, such as reasonable expenses and their limits, is not necessarily obvious to Eames. 

His vague plan to just slip in is deterred as soon as they’ve braved the staircase, because it turns out there is a doorman. 

Who’s asking for invitations. 

Arthur knows he’s screwed, but he checks his coat pockets anyway, just in case – in case what? In case Eames somehow managed to break into his apartment and sneak an invitation into his pocket, which he then didn’t even tell him about? Of course not. But the alternative is to just wait around while all the other guests get waved through, and if Arthur is anything in life, it’s an optimist. 

(That’s a lie. He’s the worst kind of pessimist there is – the kind who looks at the glass, saves the drink for later, and then waits so long that the water evaporates.) 

So he checks his pockets, predictably finds nothing but a lighter and an old receipt, and grows more nervous with each person that goes inside. Finally, there is no one left but him. The doorman looks at him expectantly, his eyes lingering on Arthur’s cheap coat. Feeling incredibly awkward, Arthur says, “Uh, so I don’t have an invitation, but maybe – I’m meeting someone inside, maybe they could vouch for me?” 

“I could send someone to check,” the doorman says slowly, not looking like he believes him, which effectively replaces any anxiety Arthur previously had with anger. What kind of person has parties with _bouncers_ , anyway? And who is this guy to doubt his words? 

“I’m meeting Eames,” Arthur says tightly. It belatedly occurs to him that maybe he’s expected to give a full name (which he doesn’t have), but already the guy has opened the door for him. “Seriously?” 

“My apologies, sir,” the doorman says. “I didn’t realise.” 

_Didn’t realise what_ , Arthur wants to ask, but instead he goes inside.

***

Still Six Days to Christmas

When Arthur was a boy, he used to flip through at the glamour magazines his grandmother bought. He’d take in the fancy clothes, and the even fancier places, and the faces, always smiling, never a trace of unhappiness to be found. He’d look at all that, and in rare unguarded moments, he’d allow himself to imagine what it would be like, being rich. Not just what it would be like not being poor, but actually being rich. Sometimes he’d make a game out of it – what would being rich mean? It would mean buying every single kind of ice cream at the parlour. It would mean new sneakers. It would mean having his hair cut not by his grandmother in their kitchen, but by an actual hairdresser. It would mean not working so hard to make sure he gets a full scholarship. It would mean his grandparents smiling more, maybe. 

Now, after he’s handed his coat to someone (his mind refuses to use the word _butler_ ) and stepped into the next room, Arthur recalls the game, and he thinks, No. He thinks, _this_ is what being rich means. 

Weirdly enough, the first thing he notices is not the sheer mass of people clad in the latest fashion and glittering jewellery, or the size of the ballroom, or the fucking _string quartet_ , or the vast quantities of food, no – the first thing he notices is Eames, standing near the entrance in a suit whose cost probably puts his stupid sweater to shame. 

Eames turns around like he knows Arthur is there, and their eyes meet across the room. While Arthur is still making up his mind over whether to go over there or not, Eames has already excused himself from his conversation and is now making his way towards him. That solves that problem, Arthur thinks, and then suddenly a woman intercepts Eames’ path.

They exchange a few words, the woman calmly, Eames with a pained grimace. At some point both are pointing in Arthur’s direction while obviously trying not to seem like they’re pointing in Arthur’s direction. Arthur takes the champagne flute offered by one of the waiters and tries to look more like he belongs. He’s so occupied by that that he only notices Eames and the woman by his side when they’re already there. There’s a tenseness to the line of Eames’ shoulders that wasn’t present earlier. 

“Arthur,” Eames says, “I’m glad you could make it. This is my mother.” 

Arthur promptly chokes on his champagne. For some reason it’s this that makes Eames seemingly relax as he extracts the glass from Arthur’s unresisting fingers and claps him on the back. Once he’s certain he’s not going to die, Arthur extends his hand. Eames’ mum pauses for a split second before accepting it; Arthur absently wonders if he should have gone down on one knee or something even as he says, “Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.” 

Another pause, just barely enough to be noticeable. “Likewise,” she says, her eyes drifting to Eames, who’s steadfastly looking at some point behind Arthur’s left ear. “I will leave you boys to it, I think I just saw your father talking to that ghastly Barrington. I shall break them up before it comes to blows. Eames, be sure to make your compliments to Lady Lockridge later. I can’t stand that look on Rosalie’s face when she tells me how _her_ sons were raised with manners, you know-” 

“I’ll be as charming as possible,” Eames promises, kissing her cheek. It’s such an unexpectedly fond gesture that Arthur wishes Eames had given him the glass back, just so he could have something to hide his stunned look behind. 

“She’s nice,” Arthur says once Eames’ mother is safely out of earshot. He feels weird about it; what exactly is the protocol for meeting someone’s parents when you’re not even dating? 

Eames laughs, which makes Arthur think like maybe he didn’t say the right thing. “Come on,” Eames says, steering him by the elbow towards a few people engrossed in conversation. “Let’s introduce you to some people.” 

“Wait,” Arthur says, a horrific realisation dawning on him. They stop walking just at the edge of the dance floor, and Eames gives him a quizzical look, a look Arthur feels is way too calm for the situation he’s just realised is about to unfold. “Eames, we forgot. We _forgot_. All the ice skating, and the diner, and the _flying_ , all of that and we forgot about it.” These are the ramblings of a madman, he knows, but at least they’re standing far enough from people to avoid eavesdroppers. 

Eames, for his part, is unfazed. “Far be it from me to interrupt this _fascinating_ breakdown, but I have to ask. What did we forget?” 

“ _Our cover story_ ,” Arthur whisper-shouts at him. “We were supposed to come up with one, and we didn’t! How could we just forget?” He doesn’t understand how Eames can be so nonchalant about this. Maybe it’s what they teach rich kids in between How to Tip Properly and Tax Evasion: A Detailed Guide. 

“Just stick to the truth, we’ll be fine, yeah?” 

“The _truth_? You mean, tell everyone that you’re blackmailing me into attending a dinner party at a place that looks like it’s from Downton Abbey, because I spilled some coffee on an overpriced sweater?” Arthur hisses. He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, not because they aren’t true, generally speaking, but because – because yesterday – and then Eames just – he just regrets them, a little. 

“You keep casting me as the villain in this little narrative you’ve created,” Eames snaps back, just as irritably, before Arthur can do anything like take back what he said. “I told you, repeatedly, that I do not need nor want you to pay for it, and yet I’m being punished here.” 

“You made me-“

“I did not _make you_ do anything. I asked you to be my date, yes, but no one forced you to accept, so you do not get to hold that over my head.” 

“The favour-“

“ _The favour_ ,” Eames says, talking right over him, “was never supposed to be something you resent, and if tonight _is_ resentable, then there isn’t exactly a legally binding document I can hold over your head. Now, I realise that you appear to be under a misconception regarding this evening, so let me clear it up for you: You’re here of your own free will, and I have no intentions of locking your parent of choice in a dungeon just to coerce you into staying in my castle and helping me break my curse.” 

Arthur stares at Eames long enough to make Eames rub his neck almost sheepishly. His palms start to sweat with the uncomfortable suspicion that Eames is probably right, so Arthur says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Please tell me you don’t have a castle.” 

Just like that, the spell seems to be broken. Eames laughs and says, “Bastard, that was a Beauty and the Beast reference.” 

“I need more alcohol before I can process the fact that you think I’m Belle,” Arthur decides and looks around for a waiter. Before he can spot one, however, Eames holds out his hand and performs a mocking sort of bow. 

“We’ll get some booze into you after you dance with me. Have to do something to sell your bestselling fake boyfriend story, don’t we?” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Arthur says, and allows himself to be pulled on the dance floor.

***

Technically Five Days to Christmas

Over the past few hours, Arthur has been introduced to what feels like a million people. It took him a while to realise that Eames isn’t just showing him off – in fact, it didn’t sink in until Eames pulled him aside in between one small talk conversation and the next, and informed him in a whisper that “The man you were just talking to is one of the most sought-after architects in the country, and he’s always looking for new blood.” Eames isn’t parading him around the room like Arthur initially assumed, he’s _helping him network_. He has vague recollections of telling Eames about his job yesterday, about all of it, the stress, the way it pays the bills, everything. It wasn’t very long before he’d changed the subject, but Eames, too, must have remembered, and Arthur isn’t sure what to make of that. 

Once the penny’s dropped, things get much easier. Arthur knows how to work a room if he has to; he collects more business cards in one evening than he has during the entirety of his various internship so far. 

Midnight has come and gone, and the party has shown no signs of dwindling down. Arthur accepts yet another card from an elderly woman who’s also, as it happens, the co-founder of one of Chicago’s more esteemed newspapers, and skims the room for Eames, whom he hasn’t seen in quite a bit. When he can’t find him, Arthur checks a few of the adjacent rooms, all of which are much more quiet than the main ballroom, none of which are smaller than his whole apartment twice over. Eames isn’t anywhere to be found.

Arthur is about to return to the party when someone behind him says, “Finally brought someone home again, did he?” 

Arthur turns to face a middle-aged man he didn’t notice when he first entered the room. There’s no question over whom he could mean, so Arthur says carefully, “I guess so.” 

The man smiles; it doesn’t look very friendly. “I’m Charles,” he says. “Eames is my nephew.” His accent is American, so Arthur assumes he’s Eames’ uncle on his father’s side – he hasn’t met the man in person yet, but he’s run into several American relatives who all claim to be cousins or uncles or aunts, and Eames’ mother is clearly as British as it gets. 

Arthur gives the answer he’s given to every relative so far, which is a neutral, “Pleasure to meet you,” and he makes to leave until he’s stopped, again. 

“He’s not going to stay with you, you know.” 

Wondering if this is either about to get really offensive or really creepy in a Game of Thrones kind of way, Arthur turns once more. “Why not?” he asks, honestly curious. It’s not like he’s Eames’ boyfriend, it’s not like they’re actually dating, but he thinks if he was, if they were, then he’d want to know more. 

Charles laughs, and it’s that laugh that makes Arthur wish he hadn’t asked. Charles and Eames don’t look very alike (Eames mostly seems to take after his mother, as far as Arthur can tell), but that laugh sounds eerily similar to the one Eames gave, right before he told Arthur he looked too poor to buy even coffee. 

“Come on, Arthur. Look at you. Look at everyone else. Hell, look at Eames. It’s not like you really _fit_ , is it?” 

“Yeah, well, this isn’t the Dark Ages. Sorry to break it to you, but if Eames wants to date a lowly peasant, then he can, and there isn’t even a death penalty involved.” 

“Oh, he _wants_ to,” Charles says, managing to make it sound utterly disdainful. “But for how long? How long until he realises you’re not part of his world?” 

“I’m going back to the party,” Arthur announces, straightening up. 

“You do that,” says Charles. “But think about what I said. Just ask yourself – what would someone like Eames want with a guy who doesn’t even have a title?” 

Arthur knows he should leave, should have left way before this conversation even started, but he’s in too deep now. “A title?” he echoes, wondering if this family is crazy enough to expect people to have a PhD. 

For the first time since they started talking, it’s Charles who looks confused. “He didn’t tell you?” 

“Tell me what?” 

“Eames is the future Marquess of Salisbury.”


	4. Chapter 4

Five Days to Christmas (Sunday)

Arthur wakes the next morning with a hangover and the residue feeling of betrayal. He has fuzzy memories of leaving after The Revelation, not even bothering to find Eames and have him explain. There isn’t much to explain anyway, is there? Eames is, is fucking _royalty_ , or whatever, and Arthur is perhaps as non-royal as it gets. He owns a pair of sweatpants from Walmart, and he drinks cheap wine, and he hasn’t the slightest idea over which fork to use for what course at fancy banquets, the likes of which Eames probably attends every weekend.

It is clear to him now that Eames’ interest, however passing it was in the first place, will surely fade. What isn’t clear to him is why Eames invited him at all. Surely he could’ve had any number of lords or rich heirs to million-dollar-companies or even other marquesses (are there others? Arthur’s knowledge of British nobility is like his savings, which is to say, barely there) hanging off his arm.

He pops an Advil, downs it with a tall glass of water, and forces himself to shower. The suit is still where he left it yesterday: Carefully put back on a hanger, because even in the wake of his anger he still couldn’t quite bring himself to leave it crumpled in a corner somewhere.

Besides, it’s not like Eames has done anything _wrong_. Not on paper. It’s just… Arthur supposes that after they danced yesterday, after they spun each other around on the dance floor, changing leads as smoothly as if they’d done it times and times before – he supposes that after all that, after Eames kissed the back of his hand like that’s a normal thing people do, and after he encouraged him to make the right sort of connections, Arthur kind of thought that something might happen. Maybe not dating, but. Something.

Obviously that’s off the table now.

He steps out of the shower just as the doorbell rings. “One minute,” he calls out, puts on jeans and a sweater as quickly as possible, and goes to answer it.

In front of him stands Eames.

Arthur’s first instinct is to shut the door. Eames’ foot intercepts it right before he can properly close it, forcing Arthur to open it once more. They look at each other. Eames, too, is freshly showered and in trousers and a sweater, only his are both offending Arthur’s eyes and probably so expensive he’d have a heart attack if he saw the price tag.

“Hi,” Eames says, smiling faintly. “May I come in?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows at the foot still preventing him from shutting the door and decides that this conversation might be better with coffee anyway. He goes to the kitchen and turns on the coffee maker and when he’s done, Eames has followed him inside.

“Making coffee, are you?” he says. “Excellent, my mother always gets much more British on American soil, which means the only drink served at breakfast is tea.”

Arthur slides him a cup and prepares his own. He doesn’t look at Eames as he asks, “Do you take milk and sugar, m’lord?”, but he notices Eames’ wince anyway. Some small, vicious part of him thinks, _Good_.

“You found out then.”

“Kind of hard not to,” Arthur says, even though it took him several hours and someone had to literally spell it out for him. He adds a “your highness” just to see Eames squirm, which he does.

“Look, I’m sorry,” says Eames. He takes a sip of coffee, frowns, and automatically accepts the milk carton Arthur passes him. This isn’t Arthur’s first rodeo; he knows very well how strangers react to coffee brewed from the machine of hell. He bought it at a flea market some years ago and quickly realised why the owner wanted to get rid of it: It’s not like the coffee tastes bad. It’s just that it seems to bear a closer likeness to motor oil, is all.

Eames adds as much milk as he can without the cup overflowing, and then adds heaped spoons of sugar that Arthur knows from experience won’t do much good, but who is he to issue a warning? After all, you only learn by doing.

While he waits for Eames to try and improve his coffee, he figures he might as well get on with it. “You don’t need to be sorry,” he says, and it’s not even a lie. “I get it. The Queen is probably like, your great grandma, and you could ride a horse before you could walk, and you had ten servants waiting on you hand and foot growing up, and now you’re in America to find your one true love before your parents force you to marry the crown prince of Luxemburg, or something.”

“None of that is factually accurate,” Eames says, sipping his coffee and grimacing, “though I do actually know the crown prince of Luxemburg. We used to play polo together as kids.”

“ _See_?” Arthur exclaims. “That’s my point right there. You spent your childhood playing polo, which I’m not even convinced is a real sport, and I spent my childhood staying in school as long as possible because some winters we couldn’t afford heating.”

“Arthur-“

“So I get that this is a bit of fun for you, one last adventure before you accept your responsibilities as the Marquess and adopt a lot of overbred dogs with your husband the Duke of Edinburgh.”

“I feel like you’ve gotten hung up on this arranged marriage thing,” Eames says, amused. “No one is getting married.”

“All I’m saying is- “Arthur starts, only to be interrupted by Eames, who’s dropped all trace of amusement in a matter of seconds. The shift is startling.

“Stop it,” Eames says sharply. “I don’t know what’s brought this on, or what’s made you think that I give a damn about titles or money. I came here because I wanted to apologise for disappearing from the party yesterday.” Arthur recalls that he had, indeed, been searching for Eames before Charles had made an appearance, but before he can follow that thought, Eames continues. “My presence was required elsewhere, so I didn’t get to say goodbye to you, and I wanted to tell you I was sorry. I also wanted to invite you for breakfast as an apology, not because I think I can buy you or because I think you incapable of paying for your own meal, but because I want to. So if you think you can manage to stop judging me for just a bit, that would be much appreciated.”

“You’re right,” Arthur says as soon as Eames is done with his little speech. He’s many things, but he’s not a coward. He can do this.  
Eames’ eyebrows rise almost all the way up to his hairline. “I am?”

“Yes,” says Arthur, growing more confident. “I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

“ _Really_ ,” Eames says suspiciously. “You’re _sorry_?”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur repeats and, figuring that he might as well go all in, adds, “And I’ve decided that you can take me out for breakfast.”

Eames stares at him for a moment and then he laughs, a full-on belly laugh that shows off his crooked teeth. All seems to be forgiven, just like that, Arthur thinks as they head out (awful coffee abandoned), and it’s not even the first time Arthur has offended Eames and Eames has just shrugged it off. Maybe rich people find it easier to forgive – or, a traitorous voice in Arthur’s head says, _maybe_ it’s just that _Eames_ forgives easily.

Everything about the past few days has been evidence of the fact that Arthur’s initial assessment of Eames as an unfeeling asshole was wrong. Arthur just isn’t sure how to reconcile this new, perhaps truer version of Eames with the man who called him worthless at their very first meeting.

***

Still Five Days To Christmas

Arthur feels that for all intents and purposes, nothing should surprise him anymore after the week he’s had. Eames could probably arrive at his place in a golden carriage drawn by four white horses and he’d just write it off as par for the course, and yet- 

And yet, as they sit in one of Chicago’s luxury hotels, Arthur realises that once more, Eames has managed to completely pull the rug from under his feet. It’s not so much the atmosphere or the fact that Arthur hasn’t even been on this _street_ before, let alone in the hotel restaurant where a single serving of scrambled eggs probably costs more than he makes in a month – no, it’s more to do with the two people sitting across from him.

“So, Arthur,” says Eames’ mother very seriously, taking a sip of orange juice and delicately dapping her mouth with a napkin while Eames’ father focuses Arthur with an intent stare, “are you eligible?”

Because when Eames said “Let’s have breakfast,” he neglected to follow it up with “with my parents”. Because that’s just the kind of person Eames is.

Arthur knows he’s met about a million relatives of Eames yesterday, including Eames’ mother, and this really shouldn’t be a big deal, but then again, yesterday he had no idea that the woman who just had a debate with her husband over who gets to eat the last strawberry on their pancakes is the Marchioness of Salisbury.

“Probably not,” Arthur admits before he can stop himself. “I don’t know why Eames puts up with me.”

It is, of course, half-joke and half-lie; after all, Eames isn’t putting up with him. They aren’t dating. Eames brought him here to convince his parents that he can’t marry the Emperor of Rome or whatever (he knows Eames said this isn’t about an arranged marriage, but Arthur has seen a lot of historical dramas, he knows how this sort of thing goes), but they aren’t _dating_. Not really.

“Don’t worry,” says Eames’ father. It’s the first thing he’s said to Arthur since the greeting. He strikes Arthur as – not shy, perhaps, just quiet. “I wasn’t considered a good match for my Rose when we met, but it all worked out in the end.”

“These things generally do,” Eames’ mother agrees. She’s smiling at her husband as she says it. Eames doesn’t look very much like either of his parents, Arthur thinks, but in that moment, his mother bears a remarkable similarity to him.

Eames claps his hands together, effectively breaking up the moment. “Alright, that’s enough now. I brought Arthur here to feed him, not to subject him to an interrogation-“ he glances at Arthur, smirks, and finishes triumphantly with, “so how about you each get just one more question, hm?”

Arthur, betrayed, drinks half his glass in one go. If he has no juice, he can’t throw it in Eames’ face.

Smiling the smile of someone who’s heard a joke but isn’t going to divulge it any time soon, Eames’ mother says, “So, Eames tells me you have experience in burying bodies. How’s that working out for you?”

“I’m – that’s not – if any bodies are going to be buried, it’ll be _his_ ,” Arthur says, flustered, and immediately wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. Eames’ parents chuckle like he’s said something adorable and not at all like he just threatened their son with murder. Arthur kicks Eames under the table and forces himself not to wince as Eames kicks back.

“Final question,” Eames’ father says. He says it in such a solemn tone that Arthur instinctively sits up straighter. Eames’ father’s eyes meet Eames, as if to assess something, before he asks Arthur, “What are your plans for Christmas?”

Relief and dread rush through Arthur at equal measure. Relief because it’s such a simple question when he was expecting something like, _how many men have you slept with_ or _what makes you think you’re good enough for my son_. And dread because, well. It’s just like all those times in school, isn’t it, back when the other kids would invite him to stuff, _are you coming to the cinema, Arthur_ , and he’d have to make up some sort of lie because there wasn’t enough money for lunch, let alone to see a movie.

 _Get a grip_ , he tells himself. _You’re not 12 anymore_. He forces his voice to stay perfectly even as he says, “I was just planning to get some work done.”

“Not visiting anyone?”

“No, sir,” he says, and he’s thinking of Mal and Dom as he says, “I have family in California, but I couldn’t get a ticket, so I’ll visit them next year, I suppose.” More likely, they’ll visit him. He can still hear his conversation with Dom in his head, Arthur trying not to commit himself or them to anything, _I’ll see you in the new year, maybe_ , and Dom being so sure, _you will_ , like it’s already settled.

From the corner of his eye he can see that Eames’ head snapped around almost comically fast at the last part.

“I can-“ he starts, and falls silent at the distinct sound of another kick; this time it’s not coming from Arthur, though. Eames’ mother clears her throat gingerly and raises one sharp eyebrow, demonstrating her artful mastery of a skill Arthur himself has always wanted to learn.

“Arthur, my husband and I would like to extend our gratitude that you’ve put up with our son,” she says. Is she mirroring Arthur’s own phrasing earlier on purpose or has being surrounded by so much money recently finally gone to his head and manifested itself in the form of paranoia? Who knows. “You can spend the holidays how you like, of course, but may I perhaps propose an alternative?”

She halts until Arthur nods, like they’re in school. Perhaps there’s going to be a quiz later. “Our family traditionally spends Christmas in England, but this year Barty insisted we go to his family’s cabin in the mountains.”

“Twenty-seven years of marriage,” Eames’ father cuts in, “and this is the first time she’s given in.” He presses a quick kiss on her cheek, softening the words.

“It’ll be mostly family and a couple of old friends,” explains Eames’ mother. Her fingers linger on her face where her husband kissed her; it’s such a weirdly intimate gesture that Arthur has the abrupt urge to avert his eyes.

“Barty and I are going to drive up there today already, but Eames wanted to join us just before Christmas. Why don’t you come along?”

***

Four Days to Christmas (Monday)

So that’s how Arthur ends up spending his lunch break in an overstuffed department store, holding up two sweaters for comparison. One has little pineapples dancing a tango on it. The other one has real fairy lights stitched into the fabric and sings a jaunty little Christmas tune when you accidentally brush the right sleeve. Both of them are awful, really the worst of what humanity has to offer, and cost over 500 bucks. Each.

Arthur puts them back on the rack with a small sigh and goes to the next shop. He still has half an hour or so to find the perfect gift; that should be more than enough, right?

He still can’t quite believe this is really happening. Not just the gift shopping bit, but the whole thing. Who even has a cabin in the mountains anymore? And who just invites perfect strangers to Christmas?

His grandfather would have, he thinks suddenly. And his grandmother, too.

The next shop proves to be no good either. He’s been looking at some more sweaters, a watch, a pair of sunglasses and, in a moment of desperation, an assortment of scented candles. All of it is either too expensive, or too ugly, or just wrong. He’s only met Eames a few days ago, but somehow Arthur is sure he wouldn’t like any of the things he’s seen so far.

He’s debating whether to just buy a book from the _Times_ ’ bestseller list and call it a day when he runs, for the second time in one week, into Trevor.

Trevor appears to be alone this time. He hasn’t spotted Arthur yet, too distracted from reading the cover of what on second glance turns out to be a copy of _Christmas Gifts for Dummies_ , and Arthur could very easily duck into the next aisle and avoid all interaction.

He doesn’t.

He walks over and says, “Hi.”

Trevor looks up from his book. A lock of dark hair falls artfully into his forehead; from thirteen months of dating, Arthur knows that this would-be casual look is in fact achieved by at least 20 minutes spent in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Arthur! How are you? We didn’t really get a chance to talk the other day.”

“I’m good,” Arthur says. Standing this close to Trevor, he notices that his former boyfriend has bags under his eyes. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“Well, you know how it is,” Trevor says, putting the book back on the shelf and smiling self-deprecatingly. “Chloe broke up with me.”

“Oh,” Arthur says awkwardly.

“It’s been a tough couple days,” says Trevor, and Arthur believes him. He doesn’t really know what the rule is for advising your ex on his new relationship-slash-break up. “But,” Trevor continues, his smile growing a bit more genuine, “this whole mess has had me thinking. You and I, we haven’t been seeing much of each other lately, have we?”

“You broke up with me,” Arthur points out, because clearly someone has to. “Why would we have seen each other?”

“Right,” Trevor says, “but. I guess I’ve just realised how much I miss you. ‘Tis the season and all that.”

Even ignoring the fact that Trevor just used a Christmas song as a pick-up line, Arthur still can’t quite process what’s happening here.

“-maybe it’s fate,” Trevor is saying. “Bumping into you in that café last week. It opened my eyes.”

 _Eye-opening_ is not the adjective Arthur would use to describe that meeting. Embarrassing, maybe, from start to finish, and then even more embarrassing once Eames entered the picture.

 _Eames_. Whom he’s gift-shopping for right now.

“-point is, would you like to go for a coffee sometime? For old times’ sake?” Trevor finishes and looks at Arthur expectantly. It is precisely the same offer Arthur was very close to making himself last Wednesday, would have made if Trevor’s new girlfriend hadn’t entered the picture.

And because he knows this about himself, Arthur allows himself to consider it for just a split second: Going for coffee, fighting over who pays the bill, going back to Arthur’s apartment, getting back together, falling back into old patterns, Arthur coming home one night to find Trevor in bed with someone else.

And Eames would become an anecdote, to be occasionally dusted off and told at parties, earning a chuckle and nothing more.

With all the facts out in the open like this, there’s really only ever been one answer to Trevor’s question.

“No,” he says, “I don’t think we should do that.” He almost says _I’m sorry_ , an automatic response to disappointing people’s expectations, but then thinks better of it and instead settles on, “Merry Christmas, Trevor.”

Then he leaves. He searches himself for traces of regret and finds there are none.

That night, Eames texts him a meme about a Christmas tree and a panther. Arthur spends several seconds looking at it before finding a piece of paper and a pen. He knows what he’ll get Eames for Christmas, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly done, guys ! If my saving-as-draft attempt was successful, then the next chapter will be uploaded in two days.


	5. Chapter 5

Three Days to Christmas (Tuesday)

It is the 22nd of December. A heavy snowstorm has taken Chicago hostage. The streets are empty, and so is Arthur’s office; his boss has texted earlier this morning to tell him not to bother coming in. Only the most persistent or the most stupid are making their way through the city today and Arthur must be both, because not only is he walking through the snow, he’s also carrying flowers. 

Few people pass him, but the ones who do give him indulgent, knowing looks. They’re all assuming he’s a really good boyfriend, husband, or fiancé, braving a storm for his loved one and even taking the time to buy a gift. 

They’re all wrong, of course. Arthur is no one’s boyfriend, let alone husband or fiancé, his loved ones are thousands of miles away, and these flowers aren’t for – well. He supposes that in some way, they _are_ for his loved ones. 

The cemetery is as devoid of people as the rest of Chicago. Arthur prefers it that way, likes that his footsteps are the only imprints on the snow here. He takes his usual route, some of the graves by now familiar like old friends, some of them recent, all of them almost entirely hidden in the snow. Winter is fair like that. 

Here they are now: Two gravestones, the peaks of them just about visible. Arthur doesn’t need to see them to know what they say; he knows the names and dates by heart. 

He lays down the lilies he bought, splitting them evenly between the two graves. They won’t last long in this weather, but it’s not about that. In a way, it never really is. 

He’s prepared for the sadness that always overtakes him on these visits, but infinitely more so twice a year, one of those days being today.

He’s prepared, he’s planned accordingly, he’s ready for it. 

What he’s not prepared for is his phone buzzing in his pocket. 

“I swung by your flat,” Eames says as soon as he answers it, “but you weren’t there. I wanted to surprise you. It was gonna be very romantic. What have you got to say in your defence?” 

Arthur, barely taking Eames’ words, numbly says, “Sorry.” 

There’s silence, and then Eames demands, “Where are you?” 

Arthur tells him. Another silence follows. Arthur says, “I’m hanging up now.” And he does. 

He sits down on one of the stone benches after brushing off the snow with his gloves, and just continues to sit there for a long time. 

At some point someone sits down next to him. Arthur doesn’t move his head. On some level he realises he’s cold, but it doesn’t register, not today. He’s well-versed in this by now. Him and his grandfather used to come here together once a year in summer; this year is the first that Arthur has done it alone. And now there’s another occasion to come. 

“Are you going to just sit there, then?” Eames asks, because of course it’s Eames who’s joined him. 

“Pretty much,” Arthur says. Eames nods and says nothing else. 

They sit like this for hours, the snow steadily falling, a heavy wind blowing. They sit until Arthur stands, which is when Eames, too, stands up. 

Arthur’s footsteps from earlier have long since disappeared, and so have Eames’. So will the ones they’re making right now on their way back to the main street. Oddly enough, there’s some comfort in that. 

Eames drives him home, dropping him off right in front of his apartment building. Arthur doesn’t say _thank you_ , but he thinks that maybe

Eames understands, anyway. 

When he walks into his flat, there’s a white envelope on the kitchen table.

***

Still Three Days To Christmas

They know. That’s the short version, and it’s all that really matters. The longer version is this: 

Arthur takes off his coat and shoes and opens the envelope with a kitchen knife. Inside it is a single sheet of paper that informs him in clear, concise words that his past is now familiar to the writer, and can be brought to the present with no effort whatsoever. It kindly adds that this does not have to be the case; if Arthur cooperates there is no reason to release his juvenile record to the world - c _ooperate_ being the operative word. 

All Arthur has to do is cease all contact with Eames and nothing will happen. There’s a line or two about how this is in Arthur’s best interest, another short section on how Eames’ name and image need to be protected. 

There is no signature, but then, he wouldn’t have expected one. 

Arthur sits down on one of the kitchen chairs and rereads the letter. Twice. Each time his initial shock grows a little less, and in turn his anger grows a bit stronger. He reads it a final time and then reaches for his phone. 

Fuck them, he thinks. Fuck them all. 

Eames arrives within 10 minutes. He must’ve been still in the area after giving Arthur a lift, and the takeaway cup with the logo of Santa’s Workshop (it’s a crude drawing of the Grinch; Arthur has always privately thought they’re asking to be sued) is further proof of that. Eames holds out the cup to him and, when Arthur doesn’t take it, sets it down on the table. 

“You brought _coffee_?” Arthur says accusingly. “Seriously? I’m being blackmailed and you have time to stop for fucking coffee?” 

“Actually, it’s hot chocolate,” Eames says blithely, “and I bought it for myself. I just thought you need it more than I do.” 

Arthur is still annoyed, but he also really likes hot chocolate and almost never buys it, so he can forgive Eames. He takes a sip while Eames rummages through his kitchen cupboards for no apparent reason. “Are you looking for bugs?” Arthur asks after a while. “Do you think they’d go that far?” 

“Hm? Oh no, nothing like that,” Eames says distractedly. “I was looking for biscuits. You’re out, though.” He sits down, clearly disappointed by this failure in Arthur’s shopping. 

“I know.” Arthur is always ‘out’ of biscuits, because he doesn’t like sweets and also because he thinks there’s better things to spend his money on. He does put Cookies on his mental grocery list, though. Just in case Eames comes by again.

“If you’re done going through my stuff, maybe we could focus on the matter at hand here.” He thrusts the envelope at Eames. He’s already read the contents to Eames over the phone, but maybe Eames needs to see it to take this seriously. 

The way Eames’ eyes flit over it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. Arthur waits impatiently for Eames to finish and, when Eames gives no indication of having done so, snaps, “So?” 

“So what?” Eames asks, putting down the letter. 

“So, what do we do now?” 

“Oh. Nothing, I suppose.” 

“ _What_?”

Eames calmly says, “I’ll take care of this. You did the right thing by telling me, but now you don’t need to worry about it anymore.” 

“I _know_ I did the right thing by telling you,” Arthur says, his voice rising, “because clearly this is more about _you_ than me. Eames,” he adds, all anger gone suddenly, “you _have to_ take care of this. Because if – if this stuff gets released, then my life is ruined. And I’m not letting them do that to me.” 

“I know,” Eames says, just as serious. He reaches over for Arthur’s hand; Arthur pulls away before they can touch. It’s just, he can’t be reminded of their fake relationship right now. It’s bad enough that someone clearly took them seriously enough to blackmail Arthur over it. He doesn’t want to think about how it’s not even _for_ anything. There’s nothing to be gained here, no great perseverance of love in the face of impossible odds, no dramatic love proclamations right before one of them gets violently killed and/or shipped off to war. Not even a kiss in the rain (or snow) – and really, what is Eames even a Marquess for if Arthur can’t be his secret lover while Eames marries his first cousin the Earl of Canterbury or whatever? 

“Arthur,” Eames says, startling Arthur out of his increasingly hysterical thoughts, “I _am_ sorry. But I will-“ 

“Aren’t you going to ask?” Arthur interrupts. Because in the end, now that he has the assurance that Eames will handle it (and he _will_ , Arthur is sure of that; Eames isn’t the type to break promises) this is really all that matters. “The letter didn’t give details. Don’t you want to know?”

Eames looks uncomfortable. “This feels like a trap,” he says carefully. 

“It’s not a trap,” Arthur snaps, even though he supposes it kind of is. “Go on. Ask me what’s so awful about my past that I can’t have people knowing.” 

“If I ask, are you going to shout at me?” 

“No!” 

“You’re shouting right now,” Eames points out. Before Arthur can do anything, like maybe shout some more, he continues with, “Thing is, Arthur, I reckon I can probably make a good guess. Something about money, something about family, a few bad decisions, enough to earn you a police record, not enough to do anything more, probably not even earning you street credit, but who cares about street credit when you’re so bloody busy spending the rest of your life worrying that people will find out you are, in fact, a Charles Dickens character?” 

“Oh my God, how are you so _British_?” Arthur yells. “Who even brings up Charles Dickens in a casual conversation?” 

“I _am_ British,” Eames says. He sounds faintly worried, but he’s also started peeling one of the oranges Arthur keeps in a bowl, so it can’t be that bad. 

“I know! I know you’re British! The other day you unironically used the word _jolly_!”

Eames has successfully freed the orange from its outer layer and starts breaking it up into smaller pieces, one of which he hands to Arthur as he says, “Are we done fighting about your juvenile record then? Because if we are, we might as well go for coffee or something.” 

“I – you – fine! Jesus. Fine. Let’s go for coffee. And then you can send your bodyguards after whatever asshole is blackmailing me like this is a James Bond movie or something.” 

So they go for coffee. And later that evening, Arthur receives a text from Eames that reads, _Taken care of_ , because clearly Eames, too, thinks they’re in a James Bond movie. 

It's only when Arthur is trying to sleep that he remembers which date it is. It seems impossible that he forgot, after he spent literal hours on the cemetery, but somehow, he did. 

Part of him feels guilty, but another, somewhat bigger part thinks this might be a good sign.

***

Two Days to Christmas (Wednesday)

It is the day of the road trip that’s going to take them to Eames’ family cabin. Arthur has packed and repacked his duffel bag three times, but he feels ready now. The plan is to have Eames come over to his apartment and then the two of them will drive up to the mountains together. They haven’t really talked much about what’s going to happen then, how exactly Christmas is going to go, and normally Arthur would have insisted on more specifics, but. 

He kind of thinks it’s nice, not knowing. Everything about the past week has been a rollercoaster; he can handle a few more surprises.

Maybe there’ll be a family photo of Eames and his parents on the moon, nothing special, just their annual summer holiday. Or maybe Eames’ gift to him is going to be Spain – at this point, who knows? He’s decided to embrace the crazy for as long as he can, before the holidays are over and everything returns back to normal. 

Someone on the street sounds the horn and a minute later, there’s a knock on Arthur’s door right before Eames waltzes in. 

“Why would you – you know what, nevermind,” Arthur says. “Do you want anything to drink before we go? I still have some leftover coffee.” 

Eames has a rather good poker face, but at the mention of what Arthur’s coffee machine tries to pass as the c-word, a shudder runs through his body. Still, his voice is perfectly polite as he says, “No thank you.” 

Arthur laughs and hoists up his bag over his shoulder. “Alright then. Let’s go.” 

“Hold on,” Eames says. Arthur looks at him quizzingly, but obediently drops the duffel bag on the floor. 

“Yes?” 

“Let’s exchange presents right now,” Eames says in a rush. He’s never sounded so nervous – in fact, so far, he’s been weirdly calm about everything. Arthur tries and fails to think of something that would make a guy who was surprised to hear that not everyone learns horseback riding in elementary school lose his chill, which probably means Eames is about to confess he’s dying or secretly engaged. Oh God. 

“You’re not engaged, are you?” Arthur blurts out. 

“What? No. I thought we went over this.” 

“Right. Sorry. I got carried away. Anyway, we can’t exchange presents, it’s not Christmas yet.” 

“I just really think you should open my gift to you right now,” Eames says, still weirdly cagey. He’s not meeting Arthur’s eyes, either. 

“It’s not Christmas,” Arthur repeats lamely, but Eames looks so off that he ends up taking the proffered envelope anyway. “Alright, but you’re not getting my gift…until…Eames,” he says, looking up, “what is this?” 

“Your Christmas gift,” Eames says. 

“You’re giving me _plane tickets_?”

“To California,” Eames says, like the problem here is that Arthur has trouble reading. “Your flight leaves today.” 

“Fuck you,” Arthur says. He says it very levelly, not an accusation, just a statement of fact. Looks like Eames has finally rubbed off on him, since he’s feeling quite serene about this. And maybe he, too, has rubbed off on Eames, since Eames is clearly feeling anything but. “No, I mean it. Fuck you. You know I’m going to accept these, right? I cannot believe you bought me plane tickets, and I know I should be proud and refuse to accept something like this, but, fuck, it’s not like you’ve given me the keys to a Corvette. You’re giving me a visit. To real people. Whom I care about. So I’m going to take this flight, but, seriously, fuck you.” 

Eames has patiently listened to his speech and now he says, “I have to say I don’t see what the problem is.” 

“The _problem_ ,” Arthur says, still in that weirdly quiet place, “is that I wanted to go on this road trip. And I _really_ wanted to spend Christmas with you. We were gonna fight about who gets to pick the music, and bake cookies, and go for long walks through the snow, possibly there’d have been a mistletoe, and my point with all this is, I’d have liked it. I wanted that. And now you’ve given me this amazing gift that is exactly what I wanted, and I kind of hate you for it because now nothing about what I just described is going to happen. And that’s not fair.” 

“Ah,” Eames says after a small pause. He clears his throat. “I see.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, all the fight gone out of him. He says, “Will you give me a ride to the airport?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go ! It's going to be uploaded on Christmas Day, and then we are DONE !


	6. Chapter 6

One Day to Christmas (Thursday)

The first thing Mal says to him when he gets off the plane is, “I’m pregnant.” And once he’s done laughing and crying and congratulating her, the second thing she says is, “Now tell me all about this man who called Dom to make sure one of us would be here to welcome you.”

“Where _is_ Dom?” Arthur asks, only realising now that his other best friend is nowhere to be seen. They take the elevator down to the parking garage and Mal informs him that Dom is gift-shopping.

“He’s so happy you’re coming after all,” she says as she starts the car. Arthur keeps glancing at her from the side to see if there’s anything different about her. Don’t they say that pregnant women are glowing? There’s no glow about her, he thinks. But she does seem happy, and that’s good enough for him. “Amanda will be thrilled, too,” Mal adds. Arthur is glad she is the one driving, because he certainly would have swerved the car at that.

So now he is here, at the Cobbs’ Christmas Eve party almost 24 hours after he first arrived, thirty hours after he said goodbye to Eames, standing awkwardly at the bar with his third drink and Dom beside him, also with his third drink.

“Where’d you leave my cousin?” he asks. Arthur points vaguely in the direction of the dance floor; he’s probably the world’s worst date tonight. “Right,” Dom says, unsurprised. Even after years of friendship Arthur has never been able to figure out if Dom is really good at reading people, or if he’s simply really good at pretending he’s good at reading people.

“It’s not her,” Arthur feels compelled to say. “She’s nice.” Because Dom doesn’t immediately reply and he’s not only tipsy but also somewhat guilty-feeling about this whole thing, he adds, “I’m sure if I wasn’t gay, we’d totally hit it off, like, physically.” Alright, so he’s more than tipsy.

“Jesus,” Dom says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “stop talking. I did not come over here to hear _that_.”

“Why _did_ you come over?” Arthur asks, suddenly realising that this is Dom’s party, so he should probably like. Be mingling. Or whatever people do at parties. Is mingling a thing? Did he mingle at Eames’ party?

“What are you doing?” Dom asks. Arthur holds up his phone, where he’s opened Google.

“Looking up what mingling means,” he says, reading out loud, “ _to move_ _round and talk_ _to other people_ _at a social event_. Does this make sense to you? Are you and I mingling?”

He barely registers Dom taking away his glass. After the better part of their college spent together, Dom taking away his glass at some point has become their own little tradition.

“Is that why you keep looking at your phone?” says Dom. He manages to make it sound judgemental. “To look up words?”

Even through his drunken haze, Arthur knows that this is a trick question. If only he could remember what the trick part is. “No,” he says suspiciously. “Yes,” he tries again. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Your phone,” Dom reminds him. “Why do you keep checking it? Not just today, either. You could barely take your eyes off it yesterday.”

Oh, that’s easy to answer. Arthur has no idea why he was ever worried about some trick. “I’m waiting for Eames,” he says proudly, waving his phone in Dom’s face. “I told him to call me.”

“Eames, as in, the guy who scared the shit out of Mal yesterday? The one she almost called the cops on because he somehow had our phone number?”

“Yes, him,” Arthur says.

“Ugh,” Dom says. He tries to take a sip from his drink and, when finding it empty, drinks from Arthur’s instead. “I was hoping for a brother-in-law who’s not a serial killer. What happened to your standards? Are you sure you’re gay, because I swear Amanda is _so_ nice.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that statement, but Arthur focuses on the most important bit. “We’re not brothers,” he points out, though it feels like a lie.

“No,” Dom says, “we are.” He finishes Arthur’s drink and attempts to pat Arthur on the back in what is probably supposed to be a manly gesture. Instead it ends up as just being awkward as hell. “I have to go, what was your word? What do I have to do?”

“Mingle,” Arthur says.

“Yes. I have to go do that. You be good, kiddo.”

Dom goes. Arthur gets a glass of water. His phone stays silent for the rest of the night.

***

Christmas (Friday)

At last, Christmas is here. It’s been a long week in a long month in a very long year, but here they are – Arthur and his two best friends, sprawled in various positions on the couch (Mal), the armchair (Dom) or the floor (Arthur), having stuffed themselves with all kinds of food and wine to the point of exhaustion, gift wrappings from this morning still covering large parts of the carpet. There is, of course, Christmas music playing in the background.

“I’m dying,” Dom says mournfully. Mal evidently tries to kick him with her foot, only to fall back on the sofa with a groan. Then none of them move for a while.

Until Arthur checks his phone again.

He puts it back down almost instantly, but not quickly enough for the others to miss it. Mal says, “Nothing?”

“No,” Arthur says. He hasn’t told Mal and Dom the whole story yet, but they know bits and pieces, and he’s sure they can guess most of the rest.

Not all of it, though. They could never begin to guess all the tiny things that have made looking at his phone every few minutes such a burning need for him.

It’s okay, he tells himself. He knew when he boarded the plane that this was a possibility. He’s known for days that after Christmas, this would all be over anyway.

He just didn’t think it would be over this soon.

“I’m getting more wine,” he says. He needs two tries to get up. “If I don’t come back, it’s because I’m vomiting.” Matching groans from Dom and Mal.

Arthur walks into the kitchen (without being violently sick, which is one of his better achievements), but before he has the chance to refill his glass, the doorbell rings.

“ _Arthur_ ,” his traitorous best friends call out simultaneously. Arthur yells something back about lazy people and terrible hosts and leaves wine and glass on the counter to open the door to the sight of Eames. 

“I got your gift,” Eames says. He’s never looked more out of place than here, in the warm Californian weather, wearing yet another stupid sweater and with a winter coat flung over his arm, an expensive-looking car parked on the sidewalk.

“You’re not allowed to park there,” Arthur says.

Eames seems unconcerned about the parking situation. He says, “You gave me another favour. Arthur-“

“You used up the first one,” Arthur says quickly, cutting Eames off because he’s afraid of what Eames will say next. “So I thought, what if you need help burying a body someday?”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Eames says. “I suppose I’m just wondering – what if I use up this favour, too? Do I have to wait until next Christmas to get a new one?”

Arthur swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “No,” he says. “I’ll spill as much coffee on you as you like way before that. Your Highness.”

“You know,” Eames says, “the correct address would be Your Lordship, if you-“

And since Arthur thinks he might need to kill Eames if he keeps talking, he kisses him instead.

***

Still Christmas

They go back inside the house some time later. If Arthur looks even half as bad as Eames does, red lips, mussed hair, it’s going to be immediately obvious what they’ve been doing – not that Mal and Dom probably couldn’t guess anyway, from how long Arthur has been gone.

His best friends are still in the exact same positions as he’s left them. Mal raises her head as they walk in; Dom doesn’t bother.

“Guys, this is Eames,” Arthur says. Mal waves while Dom’s eyes narrow a little.

“Wait,” he says, “is this the guy who managed to find out our phone number?”

“And your home address,” Arthur says.

“Hi,” says Eames cheerfully, waving back at Mal with one hand, the other draped around Arthur’s waist. Arthur takes a step to the side; just because they kissed and will probably end up sucking each other off before the day is done doesn’t mean there’s a need for PDA. Then, thinking twice of it, he steps back, just close enough for their shoulders to bump. Eames smiles at him from the side. Arthur helplessly smiles back.

“Alright, that’s it,” Dom announces. “Mal and I are going out.”

“We are?”

“We’ll be home in time for dinner,” Dom says firmly, pulling Mal off the sofa. He fixes Arthur with a stern look. “Don’t touch anything in the kitchen and stay away from the stove.”

“What about the outlets?” Arthur asks. “Can I touch those?”

Dom is still in the middle of his lecture when Mal gently leads him out the door, taking his hand as they go.

“He’s going to be a great dad,” Arthur says, meaning every word. It occurs to him that they’re alone now, and it must occur to Eames, too, because- “Are you taking off your clothes?”

Eames, already out of his jumper, stops halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. “Yes?”

“No. Wait. Put that back on, we need to talk,” he says, ignoring Eames’ offended face. He wants nothing more than to let Eames continue, but. First of all, they can’t do this in the living room, Dom and Mal would never- then again, he’s never asked what exactly happened to his favourite bedspread the weekend after he was out of town and let them stay over. So they deserve any weird stains they might get. But more importantly, there’s something him and Eames have to talk about first, and he has this suspicion that if they don’t do it now, they never will. And he’s not sure if he can live with that.

***

Still Christmas

They go out into the small garden behind the house, although “garden” is perhaps the wrong word. It’s a tiny patch of green with a single tree, about as big as Arthur’s bathroom. But it’s still quite warm, the sun bathing everything in an amiable afternoon light, and there’s a bench out here on which they sit down. It creaks worryingly; Arthur knows but doesn’t say that this is Dom’s one and only attempt at craftsmanship.

Instead he says, “I need to know who blackmailed me.”

Eames shields his eyes against the sun as he says, “I told you I took care of it.”

“Yes, but. I know that these records are sealed, alright? So I need to know if it was someone from my past, or if someone was bribed them to give out the info. Someone from your crowd.”

Eames bristles slightly at that last bit but says, sounding very dismissive, “It was a relative, if you have to know. Nothing to do with you and everything to do with my mother marrying an American. My family has always enjoyed drama, and if there’s nothing on the telly, we create our own.”

“Was it your uncle Charles?” Arthur asks.

“No,” Eames says slowly, “but now I’m interested in why _you_ think it was Uncle Charles.”

Even though it was Arthur who brought up the topic in the first place, it still feels like some trap just sprung shut on him, without an immediate way to escape. “Just. Some stuff he said at the party,” he says.

“What stuff?”

“ _Stuff_ ,” Arthur snaps. “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t unexpected.”

“What do you mean, ‘it wasn’t unexpected’?” Eames says, making air-quotes and almost hitting Arthur in the face.

A lump in his throat, Arthur quietly says, “It wasn’t unexpected because it was nothing I hadn’t heard before. From you.”

“What-“

“In the coffeeshop, you said- you told me that- you said that your jumper cost more than I’m worth. And I don’t think I can be with someone who says something like that.” There it is. Out in the open. This has been in the back of his mind ever since Eames first apologised – and isn’t that kind of the point? Eames did apologise. But not very well. It might be incredibly petty of Arthur, but this isn’t something he can compromise on.

Eames rubs a hand over his face. When he starts speaking, his voice is serious like it’s never been in the whole time they’ve known each other. “I’m so sorry,” he says, meeting Arthur’s eyes as he does. Arthur kind of wants to look away but at the same time, he knows that he never could, has never once been able to since they met. “And I realise that I have no right to ask you to hear me out, but. I do have an explanation, if you want to hear it. Or I can go back home right now. This is your call.”

Warily, Arthur says, “Go on.”

“I used to be engaged,” Eames says. “The details are hardly important, but the point is that I was engaged, and then one day I wasn’t. I didn’t handle the break-up particularly well, but then again, it’s been a year, so I rather thought it was water under the bridge, as they say.”

“No one says that,” Arthur mutters, unable to stop himself.

“And then one day,” Eames says, undeterred, “he invited me for breakfast.”

Eames pauses and Arthur thinks maybe he’s supposed to react somehow. “Okay?”

“To return his engagement ring,” Eames finishes. “So I returned his stupid bloody ring, walked out, and thought I might as well get some tea to cheer me up.”

“And then I spilled coffee on you?” Arthur guesses.

“And then you spilled coffee on me, and insisted on making it up to me, which was very sweet, and I acted like a complete and utter prick in response.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything to that, because it’s true.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says again. “It was uncalled for, undeserved, just top-notch arsehole behaviour all around. You can punch me for it, if you like.”

Arthur thinks about it – not the punch offer, because he spent large parts of his childhood having to prove himself to bigger, scarier kids, and therefore knows how to pack a punch that would probably knock Eames straight out – but about the rest, Eames’ whole explanation, and then he takes another couple of seconds to think about everything else that happened, everything that Eames has said and done since that initial offence.

He’s ready for a compromise now, he thinks.

Eames must take his silence as bad news, because he adds, “Let me make it up to you. How do I make it up to you?”

This, Arthur doesn’t have to think about. He smiles. “How about a favour,” he says.

***

One Day to Christmas (a Year Later)

“I fucking hate long-distance flights,” Arthur declares. It’s possible he’s said this before; after he completely failed to fall asleep on the plane, he feels drunk – and that’s after he declined the complimentary first class champagne, too. “Tell me again why I’m doing this?”

“Because,” Eames says from the driver’s seat (which is on the wrong side), “you correctly assumed that Mal and Dom would shamelessly use you as babysitter if you turned up, and you hate babies.”

“That is true,” Arthur allows.

“Also because my mother caught a cold last year in Chicago’s mountains and insisted on a snow-free Christmas this year,” says Eames.

“Hence, your first visit to my lovely home country.”

“You know,” Arthur says, “one day you’ll have to stop giving me plane tickets for Christmas. It’s getting old.”

“Don’t worry,” Eames says and almost crashes the car against a lamp post. Apparently his bad driving is a skill (or lack of it) rather than due to America’s confusing right-hand traffic, as he has claimed so far. Arthur would drive himself, but he’s not sure he can stay awake long enough to manage. He lets his eyes fall closed, promising himself it’ll only be a second, and -

Eames pinches his thigh. “No falling asleep,” he says, for the fourth time since they’ve left Heathrow. “Besides, you’ll want to keep your eyes open now, we’re almost there.”

Excited now, Arthur looks out the window at the English countryside. It’s really quite pretty, even with all the rain.

Then they take a turn, the small hill that’d been obscuring some of the view disappears in their backs, and –

“No,” Arthur says. “Eames, no. Tell me that’s not it.”

Eames is clearly pretending not to hear him as he turns the radio louder. Not willing to be distracted, Arthur stares what’s in front of them, then back at Eames, then back at-

“You said you don’t have a castle!”

“Technically,” Eames says, not doing a good job of hiding his smile, “it’s a mansion.”

And _Jingle Bells_ ends, and starts again, stuck on a loop.

THE END 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finished ! I frantically wrote this in the span of two weeks, trying desperately to get it done before Christmas, and here we are, with a ridiculously cheesy story that involves just about every trope ever. Merry Christmas !


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